The Science of Deduction's 1st Student
by Alice I
Summary: Series 2 left us with a puzzle to figure out. This is my solution. So obviously spoilers for everything. Characters John, Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs. Hudson & of course Sherlock Holmes. Now complete. 3-1-13 typos fixed and story tweaked to read better.
1. Chapter 1

I found yet another British television series that I think is absolutely brilliant and I am completely and totally hooked on it.  
Of course at the end of the second season or series as they are called over there the audience is left with a big fat puzzle. It's not really a cliff hanger, that was the end of series one.  
So the big question is how did he do it, and how can he prove to everyone else that Moriarty set the whole damned thing up? The puzzle must be resolved if there is to be a third series.  
This is my answer to that challenge. Obviously when series three comes out my storyline will not be in the episode, BUT I still believe I have hit the major points of how it was pulled off, who orchestrated it, and how the hero will be proved innocent to those who need to know.  
Let me know what you think of my solution.

To my readers in Merlin and else where - forgive me but this show just swept me up. It's out of my system now until series three so I am dutifully going back to Square Peg. Thank you  
Alice I

**The Science of Deduction's 1st Student**

**Chapter One**

"Why today?"

"You want to hear me say it?"

"Eighteen months since our last appointment."

"You read the papers?"

"Sometimes."

"And you watch telly...  
you know why I'm here."

PAUSE

"I'm here beca..."

"What happened, John?"

DEEP BREATHS

"Sher..."

STOPS AND CLEARS THROAT

"You need to get it out."

"My best friend..."

WHISPERED "Sherlock Holmes...  
is dead."

"You were there, you saw it happen?"

"Yes."

"You tried to stop him?"

"I wanted to go up to him... he wouldn't let me, he made me go back."

"Go back? Where?"

"Across the road. He begged me to keep my eyes fixed on him. There were things I could have said..."

PAUSE

"Things I should have said, that I... that I needed..."

DEEP BREATHS

"What did you need, John?"

"There was stuff I needed to say; that he needed to hear."

PAUSE

"I... I was frozen, I... I couldn't think. God, help me; I failed him."

LONGER PAUSE

WHISPERED "I failed,"

VOICE CRACKS "...and now he's gone."

"The stuff you wanted to say, but didn't say it,"

"Yeah."

"Say it now."

"No... I'm sorry, I can't."

Mycroft read the transcript of John Watson's therapy session and shook his head. "Oh my dear, John. Who would have ever imagined that my little brother could have made such an impact on someone else's life?" the government official murmured to himself.

That was the only transcript for that session. Apparently Dr. Watson truly could not continue. Mycroft stepped out of his office and moved to the desk of a pretty young brunette who was busy typing, her fingers flying like lightning across the keyboard, as she listened to a feed from an ear piece.

"Is that today's session?" he asked quietly.

"Just finishing, Sir." she replied, as she punched a button causing pages to print out on the machine next to her desk.

"Thank you. Please be sure that the surveillance team knows to keep a close eye on Dr. Watson. I want to be informed if he beaks his routine."

"Yes, Sir."

Mycroft moved back to his office and closed the door behind him. Taking a seat at his desk he began to read the transcript of the therapy session that had just been transcribed.

"It's been nearly a fortnight since the funeral. Are you ready to talk now?"

"I don't know where to begin."

"Tell me what you are feeling right now."

"Angry... Desperate... Lost."

"That's perfectly normal when we lose someone we love."

"I know, and look just for the record, I want to have it written down somewhere that I am not gay."

"Ok, John. Why is that so important?"

"It isn't, I mean if I were that would be fine; it's just that, I'm not."

"I see. Was Sherlock?"

PAUSE

"Honestly; I don't know. I don't think he's ever had a relationship with anyone, well not a normal relationship in any case, not even Irene Adler."

"Who is Irene Adler?"

"She was probably the closest thing Sherlock ever had to a love interest, at least that I ever knew of."

"Was?"

"Ah, yes, well she's dead now, although Sherlock never knew that. He thinks..."

PAUSE

WHISPERED "Damn it."

"John?"

CLEARS THROAT

"He _thought_ that she was in America; under some sort of witness protection."

"Who was she, John?"

"The woman."

"The woman?"

"That is how she was known professionally. She was a rather infamous woman who specialized in... well, in providing particular and specialized services to wealthy and powerful people who also required a certain degree of digression. Apparently she preferred the term 'Dominatrix'."

"Oh, I see. And Sherlock used her services?"

"No. God, no! No, not at all. He was hired to get some photographs back from her. She was different; smart, sophisticated, shameless, and dangerous. She confused him, I think. That would be enough to make him take an interest. Sherlock needs..."

DEEP SIGH

"...needed to understand everything and everyone around him. She faked her own death to avoid some trouble and it nearly crushed him."

"Were you jealous?"

"What? No, of course not. Why does everyone seem to think that we are...  
Jesus!"

PAUSE

"We are not... Christ! We _were_ not a couple! What the hell is the matter with people? Why the bloody hell can't two blokes have a close and completely platonic relationship? Yes I cared for Sherlock, I would even say more than anyone else I have ever known, but that does not mean that I ever wanted to snog him. Not that there would be anything wrong with that if I did, but I didn't, I don't... Damn it!"

SOUNDS OF PACING

"You want me to say it? Fine I will. I loved Sherlock Holmes as I would my own family, a brother if I ever had one. I loved him with all of my heart; he was my best friend and I hate him for this; I hate him and I miss him desperately. -  
Are you happy now?"

"Why do hate him?"

"Why? What do you think?"

"I want to know what _you_ think John. It's your hour."

AUDIBLE SIGH, THE SOUND OF DR. WATSON RETURNING TO HIS SEAT

"He saved me you know, in more ways than one. When I came back from the war, I was... I was lost, I was so very alone. Meeting him was... well it changed my life. He's the most maddening, infuriatingly arrogant, brilliant, and exciting person I have ever met. My life suddenly had purpose, it meant something if, at first, only to try and figure out this insane man and how his mind works..."

AUDIBLE SIGH

WHISPERED "...worked."

"And now?"

"Now? Let me tell you what my life is now, shall I?"

"Go on."

"Every time I fall asleep I am transported back to that day. It's almost like some macabre reel playing on an endless loop in my mind."

"Can you tell me about it? Can you describe what happened that day?"

"I could tell you in minute detail, but what's the point? It won't change anything."

"I think it will."

"How so?"

"Have you spoken to anyone about the details of Sherlock's suicide?"

"I gave my statement to the police."

"You need to get it out in the open. If you can't talk about it, then write it down. Write it in your blog or on a piece of paper. Let everyone see it or no one, that doesn't matter. If you write it all down then maybe you will be able to sleep without it invading your dreams."

LONG PAUSE

"I don't understand why he did this. Before he... before he jumped he told me that it was all true, what the papers were saying about him. He said that he was a fake, that he lied to me all along."

PAUSE

"He knew things about me when we first met; things he couldn't have known. He said he'd researched me, found out everything he could, so he could impress me. _That_ was the lie! The things he knew they were... you can't just google that kind of thing!"

PAUSE

"You look angry."

"What?"

"Your hands are balled into fists. Why are you angry?"

"How could he do this? That phone call to me, he said it was his note, because that's what people do; they leave notes. I...  
God damn that selfish son-of-a-bitch; _I_ was his bloody note!"

PAUSE

"What happened next?"

"You know what happened."

"You need to tell me. You need to say it out loud, John."

"He said goodbye, opened his arms wide, and then just leaned forward. I watched him fall, I heard the thud when he hit the ground."

"John, this is important. What were you feeling?"

"Excuse me? What kind of question is that?  
Jesus... Jesus! What the bloody hell do you think I was feeling? I just watched my best friend plummet to his death!"

"So you admit that he is dead."

SILENCE, DEEP BREATH

"Of course I do. I saw it happen."

"It's just that you have referred to Sherlock in the present tense a half dozen times in the last several minutes. That leads me to believe that some part of you is still refusing to believe him to be dead even though you saw him fall to his death with your own eyes."

"I know what I saw, but..."

"What is it, John?"

"In truth I didn't actually see his body hit the ground. I was across the street and the ambulance intake building obscured my view."

"I see. What did you do next?"

"I started walking toward the building, but I was knocked down, by a bloke on a bicycle I think. It took me a minute to regain my feet. I must have hit my head on the pavement because I felt dizzy and disoriented. To be completely honest I felt as though the whole thing was just a bad dream. As I came around the end of the building, I saw him lying on the ground. His eyes were open; he had blood covering his face. It didn't seem real, it still doesn't."

"You dream about this every time you sleep?"

"Every time. Its always the same, so sleeping is just rubbish."

"How much sleep are you getting, John?"

"I don't really know. Most nights it's the wee hours of the morning before I succumb."

"What time do you get up in the mornings?"

"When I work, I have to be at the clinic by 8:00."

"John, you need to sleep. This can't go on for much longer."

"Can't it?  
Yes, well I suppose you're right."

PAUSE

"Maybe it won't."

"What do you mean by that, John?"

AUDIBLE SIGH

"How long can this continue? Every time I wake up... I feel as I did that day. The pain and the anger, it's suffocating."

"How do you deal with that?"

"You won't like it."

"Why?"

"You must try to understand, what I do, it's more ritual than intent. I'm not really sure why, but by doing this, I can lock those feelings away, if only for a while."

"What do you do, John?"

"I stare down the barrel of my pistol. It's like looking into a great nothingness where pain and fear and anger don't exist, but..."

"But?"

"Neither does anything else. No joy, or love, friendship, or hope."

"Do you want to die when you look at your pistol?"

"I am a soldier, Miss Thompson, I do _not_ look for the easy way out. I would _not_ pull the trigger."

"Why?"

"Because there are people out there who it would matter to. I'm so angry with Sherlock for making me go through this; how could I do the same to someone else, to Mrs. Hudson, to Sarah?"

"What about your sister?"

"Harry? Yes, I suppose she would be upset if I were to...  
She would most certainly start drinking again, if she ever really stopped. At least it would give her an excuse. No, the only people who would really care are Mrs. Hudson, possibly Sarah, and maybe Greg Lestrade, maybe."

PAUSE

"My God, I'm as hopeless as Sherlock. Is that really all I have to show for friends? God, that really _is_ depressing."

"You described this as a ritual. Tell me the rest."

"Not much to tell really. I put the pistol away and get dressed. I go to work if there is work. I come home, I watch telly, or read the daily, but my mind always wanders back to that day. I can't help it, I'm fixated on it, as though there was some trick; somehow if I just think hard enough I can figure out how to make it all not be true."

"What if you don't have work? What do you do then?"

"Sometimes I go back to that spot at St. Bart's outside the ambulance entrance; staring up at the roof. I even went up there one time and looked down trying to find some..."

"John?"

"There must be something I am missing. Sarah once said that we solve puzzles for a living, Sherlock and me, but I can't figure this one out."

"John, you have to stop this. Come over here I want to show you something."

SOUNDS OF MOVEMENT, VOICES ARE FURTHER AWAY NOW

"Look in the mirror, John."

"Okay."

"What do you see?"

"What do you want me to say, Miss. Thompson?"

"I want you to really look at the reflection. Your clothes..."

"What's wrong with my clothes?"

"They're hanging off of you. You've dropped at least ten pounds since I saw you after the funeral. Look at yourself, really look. Dark circles under hollow eyes in a sunken face. Is that the reflection of a man who is healthy?"

"It's been a bad couple of weeks, you know."

"John, you're in denial. This is a normal stage of grief, but if you don't get past that stage you can never move on. Sherlock is gone, and the sooner you accept that, the sooner you can begin to find some peace."

"Find peace? I'm not looking for peace. I want answers. I want to know why he did this."

"He confessed to you that he was a fake, that he lied to you. People who feel overwhelming guilt will often confess their wrongdoing to someone important to them before committing suicide."

"You're wrong. I don't care what the papers say, I don't care what he told me that day; nothing will ever convince me that he lied."

"That stubborn belief is why your reflection looks like this. You need to face reality, John, you need to accept the truth."

"No. No, you don't understand. I watched him deduce the most amazing things from just a look. I lived with him; I know him; I saw how his mind worked; I know that Moriarty..."

PAUSE, VOICES LOUDER AS THEY RETURN TO THEIR SEATS

"Look, I am completely sound of mind. Hear me when I say this.  
I. Know."

"What do you know, John? That Sherlock's confession was false? Okay, let's just say that it was, and everything the papers said was wrong, how does that change anything? You saw him jump from that building. You saw him fall, and you saw him lying on the ground, dead. That is what you need to come to grips with."

"I know, I'm just not sure I can."

"How much sleep are you getting really?"

"I'm awake until exhaustion takes over. I eventually fall asleep and then the whole thing starts all over again."

"When do you eat?"

"I don't know. I guess I eat; maybe a sandwich at the deli next door or some chips. I don't pay much attention to that. Since Sherlock...  
Normal everyday things in life just don't have much meaning."

"John, I'm concerned. You have admitted contemplating suicide on a daily basis..."

"I did not."

"You spend the bulk of your time trying to work out a fantasy where your friend is still somehow alive. You continue to refer to him in the present tense. You are not eating or sleeping, and you feel that without him, your life has no meaning."

"That is, quite frankly, a gross over-exaggeration."

"I want to prescribe anti-depressants. Will you take them?"

"I..."

PAUSE

"Sure, yes, quite right, I'll take them."

"Are you just telling me what I want to hear?"

"Give me the script. I said I'd fill it."

"I want you to ring me when you wake up tomorrow. Can you do that for me?"

"Why?"

"Will you?"

"I don't know."

"John, I need you to promise that you'll ring me. You're a doctor; you know how this works. I don't want to have to send you for a mandatory psych eval."

"Fine, I'll phone you in the morning."

Mycroft put the pages down and moved over to his desk. This was more serious than he had realized and was grateful that he had decided to keep the surveillance on John Watson at grade three active. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.

"Anthea, I need the footage from the Watson cam sent to my station."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** I would like to thank azebra117, helva2260, and Tayrin Roo for the comments you left.

T-Roo (can I call you that?) made a great point in her review that I appreciate. She wrote that John can see that things are not going well and at the same time he comes across as if he is very sane. That is what I am going for.

John is a very straight forward and practical man, but he has suffered a devastating loss that is driving him nuts. There is just something that isn't sitting right about the whole thing. When I watched the Reichenbach Fall episode I got such a deep sense of overwhelming sadness from John, but I also noticed how at Sherlock's grave he moved as though he were in a formation. Very straight, turning very precisely, holding his head high. I got from those actions that he relies very heavily on his military training when he is under the kind of stress that makes him not know what to do or what to think.

Oye, let me just shut up and post the second chapter. I do love those kinds of in-depth comments, however, so thank you again.

Alice I

**The Science of Deduction's 1st Student**

**Chapter Two**

John stepped out of his therapist's office in the mid-morning sun and crumpled the paper he held in his hand before tossing it into a nearby bin. He would not be coming back, and was thankful that the only address Ella Thompson had for him was his old flat in Hackney.

_Mandatory psych eval, indeed. She completely misconstrued everything I said_.

John had told Mrs. Hudson that he couldn't go back to Baker Street, but in all honesty he couldn't really go anywhere else. Though he may never have planned it, 221B Baker street had become more than a flat; it had become the place he thought of as home. It was much the same with Sherlock Holmes. He had turned out to be so much more than just a flat share and John couldn't imagine himself anywhere else.

He caught the tube back home, all the while the events of his dream, his nightmare, playing themselves out in the back of his mind; the puzzle of the death of Sherlock Holmes consuming his subconscious thoughts. The rational part of him understood that his therapist was actually bordering on correct. He _was_ in trouble. He _had _lost weight, he _was_ showing the signs of prolonged sleep deprivation, and if their situations had been reversed he may not have let it go with a script handed to his patient. He knew that he was displaying the symptoms of severe clinical depression and the fact that he even picked up his pistol and stared it down every morning should have been cause enough to have him committed for evaluation. He knew this was true, but he honestly couldn't bring himself to care all that much.

_How utterly pathetic am I, that my life seems dead because Sherlock is no longer a part of it?_

Even as the thought ran through his mind he found himself not really caring much about that either. As if of its own accord the text from John's psychology classes at med school floated across his consciousness.

_'Apathy is a state of mind whereas depression is a mental illness.'_

_So am I mentally ill, or do I have an altered state of mind? I suppose one could devise a compelling argument for either case, or both for that matter._

That thought caused a harsh laugh to escape, making the woman sitting across from him to look over fearfully. He nodded in polite apology before returning his attention toward the window.

_I'm so tired. God, but I am tired. Maybe that is all I really need, a good long sleep, undisturbed by visions of Sherlock._

_Damn him for doing this to me! Damn him for making me watch!_

John had every intention of going back to Baker street, but instead found himself at the clinic. Sarah had very graciously allowed John to come back and work on a part time basis. She even offered him a spot on her couch when she saw him looking through the circulars for available apartments. He didn't have the heart to tell her that he was not actually trying to find a new flat, but going through the motions that were expected of him.

John knew that Sarah was only trying to help a friend in need, and that she no longer held any romantic interest in him. She was a truly kind soul and he appreciated her for that. He took her up on the part time job, but declined to subject her to his constant moodiness. It actually occurred to him more than once that he was back to feeling very similar to the way he had done after the war and before he had met Sherlock Holmes.

The clinic was fairly quiet that morning with only two patients in the waiting room and the receptionist was away from her desk so he was able to walk straight through and enter the drug room unnoticed. John knew that the last thing he should be doing now was self-prescribing, but if he didn't get some undisturbed sleep he truly would lose his mind.

Being an army surgeon, he was well aware of the effects of long term sleep deprivation. He was acting properly, and it is something he might prescribe for a patient who found himself in this situation. He went to the cabinet and looked for Seconal. It didn't take long for him to find what he was wanted. At the surgery clinic, the drug was used as anesthesia so it was available only in liquid form making it necessary to confiscate a needle and syringe in order to administer it. Once he had pocketed the nicked supplies, he made for the front door only to be stopped by Sarah's voice.

"John, you aren't working today, what are you doing here?"

John turned to face Sarah knowing full well how drawn he appeared and hoped that she wouldn't press him on it. "I was headed home but ended up here."

She walked over to him wrapping her arm around his shoulders. "John, you look like you haven't slept in days. You aren't due in for a shift until the day after tomorrow, but I can switch the schedule around to give you a few more days if that would help."

"That will be fine, Sarah. I really do appreciate you letting me come back to work. It keeps my mind off..."

"John, you really do look dreadful. If sleeping at your flat is difficult because of..., well because of memories, you know my offer is still open."

John had to smile at her. "Thank you, Sarah, really, I do appreciate it. I think I'll head home now and see about getting some rest."

"If you need something, John. If you just need to talk..."

"I know," John leaned in and gave Sarah a peck on the cheek. "Thanks. See you in a day or so."

John hated deceiving her about the drugs. He would have to find a way to make that up to her. Sarah had never been anything but decent to him. He made his way to the exit as quickly as he could and once outside he stopped and leaned back against the side of the building feeling shaky and guilty and all together miserable.

_God, I need to sleep._

With that thought firmly in mind John made his way home on foot completely unaware of the eyes following his progress.

* * *

Mycroft looked at the live feed from the hidden camera he had re-installed at 221B Baker street. He had the ability to look back within a 24 hour window and moved the cursor so that he could witness this morning _'ritual' _that John spoke of with his therapist. The insomnia kept Dr. Watson up and therefore down in the living space of the flat; advantageous for surveillance. It appeared that most nights the good doctor fell asleep on the couch which was the case for the previous night, so Mycroft had a perfect view of John as he slept. He checked the time index on the feed and John had not been exaggerating when he said he didn't generally drop off until the wee hours of the morning. The man finally fell asleep at 4:50 AM.

Forwarding through the footage at high speed didn't take very long. By 6:28 AM John Watson was showing signs of having his nightmare. It was more difficult than Mycroft would ever have expected to watch Dr. Watson thrash in his sleep. Mycroft was not unlike his younger brother, having a sense of detachment when dealing with the plight of others. A memory of Christmas in the morgue last year floated to the surface.

_"Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there is something wrong with us?"_

_"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

At 6:42 John sat up abruptly panting Sherlock's name. He swung his legs down breathing hard and holding his head in his hands. It wasn't too difficult to hear the whispered obscenities. Once the man had his breathing under better control he sat up straight as though 'sitting at attention'. It was clear to the government official that Dr. Watson relied heavily on his strict army training when under stress.

Perhaps it was that military posture that made a chill crawl up Mycroft's spine when he watched John reach over to the top drawer of the desk near the head of the couch and withdraw his service revolver. In a deliberate movement he checked the clip before chambering a round. Just as John had described in the transcript, he turned the gun to face himself and stared down the barrel.

While Sherlock and Mycroft shared a certain emotional detachment, neither of the Holmes men were automatons. They both did experience emotional sentiment if the strained sigh from the corner behind him was any indication. Mycroft may never openly admit it, but the emotion he was experiencing as he watched John Watson could be described as concern. It was, however, with rapt fascination that Mycroft watched the man he had arranged to be his brother's protector, and moral compass slow his breathing down and regain a sense of calm and control while staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. After a few minutes of this John sat up even straighter, before clearing the bullet from the chamber and replacing the pistol to the drawer.

Mycroft had wondered how accurate John's description had been of his _'ritual'_ only to find that his military background lent itself to extremely precise situational reporting. That being the case, some of his concern ebbed away, knowing that if Dr. John Watson had reported that this was ritual verses intent, he could take him at his word.

A soft ringing sounded from his pocket, and Mycroft paused the playback to pull out his phone.

"Mycroft Holmes.

That _is_ curious. How long was he at the clinic?

And he went to Baker street afterward?"

Mycroft clicked a button on his screen bringing the camera back to a live feed.

"Yes I have him on the camera now. Thank you."

Mycroft watched as John left the living area only to return a few moments later carrying a small white box that he set down on the coffee table. Mycroft zoomed in on the box to discover that it was a standard first aide kit. Dr. Watson removed his coat before coming over to sit down on the couch, but when he began to roll up his sleeve Mycroft sat down at the desk muttering to himself, "What _are_ you doing?"

Mycroft heard a shuffling behind him, but paid no attention knowing full well who it was, and what his visitor had just witnessed on the time lapsed feed. His attention was fixed on the screen and the current actions of Dr. Watson.

John opened up the first aide kit and removed a tourniquet and a small white square of foil. He then reached into his pocket and took out a small vial of clear liquid, a syringe, and a needle setting them on the table next to the first aide kit.

An arm adorned with long slender fingers reached from behind Mycroft touching the console controls to zoom in on the vial.

"Seconal; a rather powerful sedative. In Liquid form it is most commonly used as a general anesthetic."

Mycroft felt his chest tighten. "What does he mean to do?"

"Tsk. That should be obvious. He wants to sleep, undisturbed by dreams."

"I understand that, but is it safe?" Mycroft asked, feeling his irritation rise.

"He _is_ a doctor, but perhaps..."

They stopped speaking as both watched John use the needle and syringe to draw out a measured amount of the drug. The camera zoomed into its maximum, focusing on the syringe. Mycroft tsked and took over the camera controls backing off the zoom so that a clear picture of the entire scene showed on the screen. John cleaned the crook of his arm with an alcohol wipe before injecting the drug. Both observers held their breath as they watched him lie down on the couch. As soon as he removed the tourniquet the drug took immediate effect, and Dr. John Watson was completely unconscious before he was even able to set the tourniquet on the coffee table.

Mycroft turned to his guest. "The car will be at the rear entrance. As always, be careful."

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**The Science of Deduction's 1st Student**

**Chapter Three**

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade had been exceptionally busy the last two weeks. There had been a rash of execution style deaths but the police had no leads at all. The only thing that the victims had in common was the method of their executions - a bullet to the back of the head - and their criminal backgrounds which meant that London had its very own vigilante. Cases like these were always difficult for the police. This particular sentinel had thus far left no forensics evidence behind, no witnesses, and no messages of warning to the criminal underground other than the nature of the deaths. This didn't feel like random acts. These deaths were connected, of that Lestrade was certain, so he had all of his people looking for the common thread between these criminal's illegal activity to find out where they intersected.

More than a few times DI Lestrade found himself wishing that he could consult with Sherlock Holmes. His insight into murders such as these would most likely have allowed them to wrap up the case by now, or at the very least figure out who or what all the victims had in common. Unlike his co-workers, Lestrade did not believe what the papers had to say about the Sherlock Holmes. He had known the man for over six years and there was no doubt in his mind that what he had seen the eccentric genius do had been genuine. He could not begin to fathom why Holmes had taken his own life. It made no sense at all. Sherlock Holmes never cared what anyone else thought of him, quite the contrary he seemed to thrive when his character came under attack. Lestrade's train of thought was interrupted when Donovan came into his office holding yet another folder from the crime lab.

"Ballistics on the latest two victims. Still no matches. So we have fifteen bodies, all killed the same way with fifteen different weapons, none of which show up in any database. How can this be the work of one guy?"

"I don't know, it doesn't seem likely, but what kind of criminal organization targets criminals?"

"Rival gang?"

"I'd agree, but these aren't gang-bangers. Three of our bodies are known international hit men. Two more show up on Interpol's hot list. No, this is something else. This feels different, like a vendetta. Have we been able to find any other connections between these people."

"Six are from abroad and had only been in the country for a short period of time anywhere from three weeks to six months. Three are from the different parts of the east end, one is from Ireland, one is from Scotland, two from Whales, oh and get this, two of them lived on Baker street just down from 221B." Donovan said, as she looked through her notes.

"You're kidding."

"Yeah, those two are Ludmilla Dyachenko and Dimitri Zemlinsky, two of our three assassins. Now what do you suppose international hit men would want taking flat shares on Baker street?"

Lestrade felt his gut tighten uncomfortably. He now knew what the connection was between these murders. These were Moriarty's people, but were he to voice that opinion he might quickly find himself on the dole. Instead he chose to focus on the aspects of the case that he _could_ vocalize.

"This level of precision could only have been pulled off by a professional. Someone with military or special forces background."

Donovan almost had a gleam in her eye as she spoke. "Doesn't John Watson have that kind of background?"

There were times that Lestrade wanted to slap Donovan. She just wouldn't let go of the fact that she believed herself proved right about Sherlock Holmes being a psychopath. Now she had turned her sights on Dr. John Watson.

"You honestly think that John Watson could be responsible for fifteen murders of professional hit-men and other assorted criminals? Have you lost your mind, Donovan? The next thing you'll be suggesting is that Mrs. Hudson was his accomplice."

"What about two of our victims living within a stones throw of 221B Baker street?"

"Well if you applied any sort of logical reasoning, you might actually come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe the papers were wrong. Holmes said that Jim Moriarty was the head of an intricate criminal network. If that were true and he was in fact targeting Sherlock Holmes that would explain why two international hit men took flat shares on Baker street."

Donovan scoffed at her superior. "You actually buy that Moriarty lark? There _was_ no Jim Moriarty. When the actor outed the freak he was publicly shamed and jumped off a building. That's all there is to it. There is no Moriarty!"

"You need to go through everything we have again on every single victim. Check phone records, credit card records, internet activity, travel patterns, what restaurants did they frequent, what markets did they buy their food in? I want to know what brand of shampoo these people used. You keep digging until you come up with a plausible explanation why two big hitters moved to central London right down the street from the man you believe was a fraud, and don't even think about coming back to me until you have a solid working theory."

The indignation on Donovan's face as she was set to her task was little consolation for Lestrade. She was a decent officer when her personal prejudices didn't get in the way, but when it came to anything that had to do with Sherlock Holmes she was blinded, and became completely ineffective. The thought that she had planted about John's military background stuck in Lestrade's mind, however.

If these murder victims were people who had worked for Moriarty then who else had a better motive for killing them than John Watson? He did have a military background and he was intelligent; intelligent enough to make sure he didn't leave any evidence behind. The sticking point was the ballistics. Frustration welled up and Lestrade slammed his fist down on his desk causing many in the squad room to turn their heads.

* * *

A sleek black car rolled to a stop in front of 221B Baker street and sat there for a moment while the passenger looked through the tinted window fingering a well-worn key. After a moment a soft chime sounded from his pocket and he withdrew his phone to read the text message sent.

_'Mrs. Hudson is out.'_

The rear door opened and the passenger, wearing a hooded jacket, stepped out moving quickly to the front door keeping his head down, knowing that most people took no notice of those around them. Closing and locking the door behind him, he stopped for a moment just inside. Looking up toward 221B he ascended the stairs to find the doors to the front room and kitchen were open as per usual.

Dr. John Watson lay on the couch, his head rolled to the left, his right arm hanging down with the tourniquet hanging from limp fingers. To any third-party watching, the scene would have appeared sinister as a tall dark hooded figure approached the sleeping man. The hood was thrown off and Sherlock Holmes stood in the living area staring down at his friend. He took a moment to notice everything in the room. It was obvious that John had been living in this one room of the flat almost exclusively. Half full cups of tea and glasses of water were left untended around the room. A plate of food that Mrs. Hudson had no doubt prepared, sat untouched on the side of the table that could be accessed. On the other side of the table there stood a tower of stacked boxes; his personal belongings that neither Mrs. Hudson nor John had the heart to dispose of or give away. A pile of dailies had tipped over and were strewn across the floor at the far end of the couch. A stack of unopened mail sat on the small table next to the leather chair; a few stray envelopes having fallen to the floor. John's clothing was rumpled and his features were haggard.

"I _am_ sorry, John, I truly am." Sherlock whispered.

He bent down taking the tourniquet from John's slack fingers and lifted the limb up gently laying it across his still form. Tender fingers checked the pulse in his neck before turning to retrieve the vial of Seconal to examine. Sherlock sat on the edge of the coffee table and placed his hand on John's chest feeling it rise and fall with regular breaths. John's breathing was shallow, but not dangerously so. His lips and finger nails were not blue, but that could change. John had administered the drug only twenty minutes previously and could still suffer a respiratory side effect. Sherlock trusted John's judgment as a doctor, but the man was clearly near the end of his rope and could have made a mistake.

"This was risky, John."

He put the tourniquet back into the first aide kit, but the now capped needle and syringe as well as the vial of Seconal were placed in the pocket of his hooded jacket. Unwilling to leave John when he could still have a dangerously adverse reaction to the anesthetic, he moved over to the leather chair on the other side of the tower of boxes and sat down turning the chair slightly so that he was facing the couch. He steepled his fingers against his lips and settled in to watch over his friend.

Less than two hours had passed when Sherlock's phone chimed with a new text message.

_'Mrs. Hudson is back'_

Just as he read the text the he heard the front door open. Knowing full well that he couldn't be seen by anyone, Sherlock quietly rose and retreated behind the stacks of his own personal effects. As he anticipated, Mrs. Hudson came up to the flat with bags, stopping in the doorway when she saw John sleeping on the couch. He had pulled the hood of his coat up over his head and stood absolutely still peaking between two boxes placed side by side on top of a larger box. She sighed as she looked at John then turned and tip-toed to the kitchen trying to be as quiet as possible while putting groceries away.

Sherlock had a clear view of the refrigerator when she opened it and saw that it was full, but everything remained untouched. She took the milk out and poured it down the drain before replacing the bottle with a new one. She removed at least four plates of food that had been stacked up and set them on the counter so she could scrape the contents one by one into the bin, shaking her head as she worked. After a few minutes she moved out of the kitchen and stepped closer to the couch.

As he looked on from his hiding place, Sherlock watched her lay a blanket gently over John's sleeping form and very lightly place a kiss on his forehead. She turned to leave and saw the first aide kit sitting on the coffee table and frowned down at it as though it had committed some offense. She picked it up heading for the bathroom and Sherlock realized he had a chance to slip out, only his phone chimed again. He pressed his jacket closed listening to ascertain if Mrs. Hudson had heard the sound, but she didn't seem to. He quickly removed the device and checked the screen.

_'Get out! Lestrade.'_

Before he could do anything the sound of the front door opening stopped him. He would have to wait it out behind the boxes.

"Mrs. Hudson?" the DI's voice called from down the stairs. Sherlock didn't realize that she could move so quickly until Mrs. Hudson came sailing out of the bathroom through the kitchen and over to the top of the stairs.

"Shhh! John is sleeping, finally. I don't want you to wake him."

Lestrade climbed the stairs and joined her at the top, out in the breezeway. "I'm sorry, I actually came to speak to John."

"Can't it wait? He has hardly slept since... well you know. He's exhausted."

"I'm sorry, but I really do need to speak to him. It won't take long and he can go back to sleep after."

Sherlock smiled to himself as she moved to block the door frame into the living room. "This is the first time he has actually slept in ages, I really think you should come back later."

DI Lestrade was stubborn however, and placed his hands on her shoulders moving her to the side. "I am sorry, but I have to insist."

"Ohhh alright then, but let me. Waking up with the police standing over him would give anyone a fright." she said, in an irritated whisper.

Mrs. Hudson moved over to the couch tossing a very cross scowl back over her shoulder at Lestrade who had the decency to look properly abashed. She leaned over and gently shook John's shoulder. "John, I'm sorry you need to wake up now, dear."

John naturally didn't respond, and when his hand dropped down off his chest from under the blanket hitting the floor she stood back up startled and looked a little frightened. She shook him more vigorously. "John, dear, wake up. John, oh my, what's wrong." She turned panicked eyes up to Lestrade. "He won't wake up."

Lestrade moved Mrs. Hudson back out of the way and knelt down shaking John hard. "John!" He placed a hand on John's chest as he listened to the man's breathing. Then he lifted up each eyelid peering in at the pupils. "Shit. What have you done?"

Sherlock became alarmed by Lestrade's reaction. John still had color in his lips and fingers so he had assumed that the doctor was fine and just in a deep sedated sleep, but Lestrade was a professional inspector and if he was concerned, then Sherlock paid notice. Lestrade pulled out his phone and dialed 999.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade. I need an ambulance sent to 221B Baker street. I have a victim of an apparent overdose here."

Mrs. Hudson just about fainted dead away at that, and sat down on the end of the couch by John's feet wringing her hands and crying.

"Oh, my this can't be happening, it just can't. I can't go through this again."

Meanwhile Lestrade started looking around at the coffee table and on the floor by the couch. Sherlock froze praying that the man wouldn't start tearing the place apart looking for what ever John had taken.

"Do you have any idea what he took? Mrs. Hudson?"

The woman didn't seem to hear Lestrade. "I've already lost Sherlock, I can't bear to lose John too."

Lestrade placed his hands on her shoulders and looked her in the eye. "Mrs. Hudson, you aren't going to lose him. Please think, do you have any idea what he could have taken?"

"I... wait there was a first aide kit sitting on the table when I came in."

Lestrade looked around as if trying to spy the kit. "Where is it now?"

"I put it away." She moved off toward the kitchen as she spoke, "Just a minute." she said, as she disappeared through the bathroom door.

Moments later she emerged with the box handing it to Lestrade who immediately opened it and began rifling through the contents. Sherlock was relieved that he had pocketed the Seconal. The last thing John needed now was a drugs charge.

"There's nothing here."

"I could have told you that!"

Lestrade set the box down and moved over to the sleeping man pulling the blanket back. He began searching John's pockets which seemed to further upset Mrs. Hudson.

"Please stop this; John's a good boy, and so was Sherlock. All those lies they wrote about him, that's what did it. That's why we lost him."

Mrs. Hudson seemed to get herself under control and stood up placing her hands on her hips. "I should never have let you up here. You'd better leave now, unless you intend to arrest him for sleeping too soundly!"

Sherlock felt a bit of pride listening to dear old Mrs. Hudson defend her boys.

"Hold on there, Mrs. Hudson. I don't want to arrest John, I'm just worried about him. I lost someone I cared about too when Sherlock died. I don't want to lose another friend."

Lestrade words caused a spike of regret through Sherlock's heart. While he considered the Detective Inspector a friend, of sorts, he never imagined that the man felt anything of the sort in return. He was so blind to matters of sentiment. Here in this room are the three people who were targeted by Moriarty as Sherlock's only friends forcing him to fake his own death to protect them. How is it that he couldn't see what was right in front of him when Moriarty had seen it so clearly?

It didn't take very long for the ambulance to arrive and the medics agreed with Lestrade that John was the victim of an overdose. As soon as they took John away Sherlock stood up feeling stunned by what he had witnessed. His phone rang, and he answered it knowing full well that Mycroft had watched the entire scene unfold.

"There will be people to look after him before he even arrives at the hospital. I'll see to it. You had best get back here."

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**The Science of Deduction's 1st Student**

**Chapter Four**

A steady beeping invaded John's consciousness. Some part of his foggy mind recalled a pink phone.

_Five pips, shouldn't it only be five?_

But the beeping went on, slow and steady. It was bright behind his closed lids. Frowning at this odd revelation he cracked his eyes open slightly allowing them to adjust to the light. As his surroundings came into focus, John realized that he was in a hospital room. That realization brought him fully awake and he sat bolt upright. The beeping was no longer slow and steady; increasing in tempo mirroring the pounding of his heart.

_What happened?_

It only took John another moment to realize that the beeping was indeed keeping time with his heart. He moved his hand to his chest and felt lead wires under the thin fabric. He was on a heart monitor. He had an intravenous line in the back of his hand, his mouth was dry as a desert, and his head was pounding with a monster headache.

"What the hell?"

John was not not pleased to find himself in hospital when he should have woken at home on the couch. An uncomfortable thought occurred to him. If he was in the hospital then maybe Mrs. Hudson had tried to wake him and couldn't. That would have frightened the hell out of her especially after what had happened with Sherlock. That thought stopped him in dead in his tracks.

_Sherlock_.

He had not dreamed of Sherlock, or if he had he had no recollection of it. The relief that he had been able to actually sleep undisturbed by his nightmare overshadowed his alarm of waking in the hospital and the beeping of the heart monitor began to slow down.

Looking around he realized that it was morning, judging by the light peeking through the curtains. So he had slept all afternoon the previous day and all night as well. Somehow that realization allowed him to notice that he felt far more refreshed than he could even remember feeling over the last few weeks which in turn validated his decision to use the sedative.

He looked around wondering where his clothes were and spotted the wardrobe next to the bathroom. He had no intention of staying here one minute longer than he had to, so he removed the heart monitor leads and the IV from his hand. A small wave of vertigo hit him when his bare feet hit the cold linoleum floor, but passed quickly.

Thankfully his clothes were right there, and had not been taken off somewhere. John remembered being told by one of his professors in med school that if there was a question as to why a patient was admitted, especially if suicide was a possibility, certain doctors would order the patient's clothes to be kept elsewhere to prevent them absconding. To Mrs. Hudson this must have looked like a suicide attempt. That thought sent a strong stab of regret through him.

John dressed in the bathroom but was unable to find a razor. Apparently they don't think a razor in the loo would be a good idea when it appears you have tried to kill yourself. Looking in the mirror John ran his hand down over his stubbled face. While the scruffy look added to the overall appearance of a man on the brink, he _did_ look better around the eyes than he had the previous day looking at his reflection in Ella Thompson's office. That long-sedated sleep had done him a good turn, and he had to admit that he felt better than he had since this whole nasty business had started.

This realization bolstered John's confidence in his choice to use the Seconal and he would simply have to explain that to Mrs. Hudson. John was given his chance to do just that, for as he stepped out the of the bathroom the door to his room opened and Mrs. Hudson walked in.

She saw the empty bed and a look of panic showed briefly in her eyes until she turned her head and saw him standing there fully dressed and ready to go.

"Oh, John!" she cried, as she rushed over and hugged him tightly as though she was afraid she would lose him any second. "You gave me quite a fright! Don't you ever do that to me again! A woman of my age can't take it, ooh, my poor old heart nearly stopped."

John's resolve crumbled instantly. Her reaction made him feel terrible and question his decision to use a sedative. He really hadn't thought this through. It had not occurred to him that Mrs. Hudson was the one who would find him passed out in the living room. He really should have have realized that using the couch as the place he would sleep after administering the sedative to himself was a poor choice.

John felt her trembling in his arms. "Mrs. Hudson. I am _so_ sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you. Honestly, I just took a sedative so I could get some real sleep. I should have realized that you would get upset if you tried to wake me and couldn't."

She pulled back from him so that she could see his face. "At first I didn't think anything of it. I was relieved that you were finally sleeping, dear, but when Detective Inspector Lestrade insisted I wake you and you wouldn't rouse... Oh my, John I thought... I thought that you had..."

John held her hand as he guided her to a chair in the corner and had her sit before squatting down in front of her.

"Listen to me, Mrs. Hudson. I would never do that to you. I would never... After what we have both been through with Sherlock..."

John hung his head. Thinking about Sherlock's suicide brought back the pain and the anger he always experienced after the nightmare, but now he was able to put those feelings aside. The sleep really had done him a world of good.

"I had not slept in so long. I knew I was in trouble, and suffering from the effects of prolonged sleep deprivation. I took a very strong sedative so that I would sleep and not be wakened by... well by anything. Apparently that is precisely what I got, owing to the fact I woke up in a completely different place than where I went to sleep."

Greg Lestrade stood just outside the door listening to John and Mrs. Hudson speaking. Since yesterday afternoon he had cleared John as a suspect in the serial homicide case they were working. He had been at the surgical clinic at the time that five of their victims had met there untimely demise, and at Sherlock's funeral when another one was killed. He may have started out going to see John to question his wear-a-bouts, but that quickly changed. His biggest concern when he found the army doctor the previous day was that he had indeed attempted suicide, and he was very pleased to hear that John had no intention of harming himself.

"That would have been my fault." He spoke up as he entered the room.

Both John and Mrs. Hudson turned their attention to the door as John stood up. Lestrade stepped through the doorway holding out his hand.

"John, I'm glad to see you up and on your feet."

John shook his hand, but had an uncertain look on his face as though he wanted to be very careful how he responded. Lestrade couldn't really blame him, though he had hoped that their friendship would override what clearly looked like suspicion in the other man's face.

"Greg. Mrs. Hudson tells me that you stopped by and insisted that she wake me. What was so urgent?"

Lestrade felt a bit awkward about this and didn't really wish to speak in front of Mrs. Hudson. She was clearly very protective of her _'boys'_, but John's stiff posture, that of a soldier standing at attention, told him he was unwilling to wait for privacy.

"I needed to ask you where you were on several occasions over the past couple of weeks. Look, John, I really didn't want to do that, but..."

"My whereabouts over the last few weeks?" John interrupted. "Why, what has happened?"

"Well, there have been several deaths, and while I can't officially say this, it appears that they are all people who may have worked for Jim Moriarty."

John drew in a sharp breath as his face clouded with genuine anger. "I see, so you just thought you's pop by for some tea and accuse me of what? Serial homicide?"

This wasn't going as he had hoped and Lestrade could understand John's indignation. "I'm not accusing you of anything, John. It's just that these deaths seem to be the work of someone with military background and to be honest, you have a clear motive to go after Moriarty and his people."

John didn't raise his voice but the fury with which he spoke made Lestrade wince. "Moriarty? He doesn't exist, remember. It was all over the newspapers. Sherlock Holmes made him up. You remember Sherlock, don't you? The fake detective who didn't actually help you solve any crimes. Sherlock, who according to Kitty Riley, committed the crimes just so he could solve them. That Sherlock Holmes? So there are a few dead bad guys and now suddenly Jim Moriarty is not only real, but he has people; people who are being killed, and naturally you turn to me!"

John Watson was beyond furious at this point and Lestrade needed to bring this back into perspective. It didn't help when a very miffed Mrs. Hudson interjected, "You should be ashamed, Detective Inspector! John is no murderer, how could you even think to accuse him of such a thing."

Lestrade threw his hands up in the air. "Look, I am not accusing John of anything. In fact I have cleared you of being a suspect, despite the objections of others, based on your work schedule at the surgery and owing to the fact that at least one of the murders occurred during the funeral."

"Other people's objections? Let me guess, Sergeant Sally Donovan?"

There were times Lestrade really hated his job, and being a buffer between Donovan and Sherlock Holmes and now between her and Dr. John Watson was one of the things that made him regret his chosen career.

"I'm not going to discuss who or why with you, John. The fact remains that you _were_ being looked at as a suspect because of your prior association with Sherlock Holmes, your military background, and the fact that two of the victims lived next door to 221B Baker street."

"Wait, what?" John asked, forgetting some of his anger.

"That's what I'm trying to say. I didn't come to your flat yesterday to accuse you, I wanted to rule you _out_ as a suspect, and..."

"And what, Greg?"

"And I was wondering if you would be willing to come with me to the morgue. I want to know if you can identify the two victims that were neighbors with you."

John began pacing as he was clearly attempting to get his anger under control. "So I've gone from being a suspect in a murder inquiry to being a witness, a consultant, what? You know... I don't care. Find yourself another stooge."

Before Lestrade could counter John's objection the door to the room opened and a doctor walked in looking rather shocked at the raised voices in a patient room.

"What's going on here? Mr. Watson, you should be in bed."

John turned on the doctor and for a moment Lestrade though he might actually strike the man.

"Excuse me, but I don't belong here at all. I was brought here against my will and I'm leaving now."

He turned to walk out of the room but stopped when the doctor blocked his way.

"That would not be wise. I want to have your blood drawn again to test your levels before I can release you. Seconal is a dangerous drug and not one that should be used by anyone other than a trained professional. You could have easily died, Mr. Watson."

"That's _Doctor_ Watson, if you please, and I _am_ a trained professional. I knew precisely what I was doing and as you can plainly see, I am fine. You have no right to keep me here, so back off, I'm leaving."

John stepped around the doctor who just stood there with his mouth hanging open, and walked out into the hallway. Lestrade followed quickly wanting to clear the air between them. He still wanted John's input and he meant to get it.

"John, please wait."

"What?" John did stop and turned toward Lestrade.

"Please, will you come? I honestly need your help. Donovan, Anderson, Carter, even the Chief Superintendent. None of them... none of us, have any idea what to look for here. Please I'm asking you as a friend, will you help?"

"Won't that get you into hot water with your superiors?"

"I don't really care. Look, I considered Sherlock a friend, not a stooge, or a contrivance. If I can prove that these deaths are tied to Jim Moriarty, and thus prove that Moriarty was real, maybe, just maybe I can clear Sherlock's name and make the doubters eat their words."

That did it. Lestrade had got through.

"John, dear, if you can help give Sherlock back his good name..."

John turned to her as she stood quietly to the side. "Of course I'll help. As Jeanette so kindly pointed out at Christmas, I'd do anything for Sherlock. Can you make it home okay?"

"You go on, dear. I'll be fine." She said, before giving him a kiss on the cheek. "You make that nasty reporter and all the rest of them wish they had never said all those horrible things about our Sherlock."

Lestrade was very glad that he had managed to not only calm down John, but to successfully engage him to look at the case. John my not be Sherlock Holmes, but he was an intelligent man who had spent the last two years in almost constant company with the genius detective. A small part of Lestrade was hoping that maybe something of Sherlock had rubbed off, although he'd never admit to that aloud.

Molly was down in the morgue and had pulled out three bodies. Lestrade stood by silently as John and Molly exchanged an awkward hug.

"Hello, John. How are you?"

"I don't imagine much better than you about now. Are you okay?"

The young woman looked down nodding to her feet. "Yeah, Sorry I haven't stopped by."

"Don't. Really, Molly, just don't. You have quite enough to be getting on with. I'm fine."

She looked up at him then, and her eyes looked incredibly sad. "_You_ don't look fine."

Lestrade felt like he'd somehow missed something important just then because a tear dropped down the Molly's face. "I'm so sorry, John."

John stepped closer to her and hugged her far more warmly than before. "I know." he whispered.

After a moment she pulled back and sniffed, wiping her eyes before directing her comment at Lestrade. "Detective Inspector, I know you only wanted the two who _lived_ on Baker street, but my records showed that this third man's body was _discovered_ on Baker street even though he was from Glasgow."

"Thank you Molly. That's a fair point." He turned to John. "In the last two and a half weeks we have had a rash of murders; all killed in the same way, a single shot to the back of the head."

"So these people were executed." John said.

"None of the ballistics match so that means fifteen different weapons. The common thread is that all of them are criminals. At first we thought that this may be the work of a vigilante, but that's not likely with that many weapons. What brought me to you was the fact that two of these victims are known international assassins who just happen to take up residence on Baker street right down from 221."

Molly unzipped the body bag closest to them to reveal a woman that John had seen before.

"Yeah, I've seen her. Ludmilla Daychenko."

Lestrade was shocked. "How did you know her name? Have you spoken to her?"

"No. Mycroft showed me her picture along with the pictures of three other internationally known killers all of whom moved into Baker street recently. He was trying to warn me. He was worried about Sherlock."

There was a strong hint of disgust in John's statement concerning Mycroft's concern that Lestrade didn't understand. He was not aware that John and Mycroft didn't get along. Lestrade indicated that Molly should open the next body bag. John took a look and nodded. He seemed to be thinking hard, trying to pull the name out. "Yeah this one is Dimitri Zemlinsky. Two of the four that Mycroft showed me were killed after they saved Sherlock's life."

Lestrade knew he had made the right decision bringing John in on this, but he was stunned that this information was only now coming to light. "How do you know this?"

"I saw it happen, both times. The first time one of them pushed Sherlock out of the way of a speeding car and when Sherlock shook his hand he was shot by someone from one of the nearby buildings. Check your police reports, it should be in there.

"The second time it happened was the night you arrested Sherlock for kidnapping those children. When he ran from the police he noticed that someone else was following us. He wanted information so he ran out in front of a bus knowing full well that this man would save his life. Never mind the fact that I was handcuffed to him at the time and if his theory had proved incorrect we'd have both been flattened.

"The man's name was Ivan Borsh, if I recall correctly. Sherlock took Ivan's gun from him when we all fell to the ground and demanded to know what they all wanted from him. That was when we found out about the key code."

Lestrade once again felt completely out of the loop. "Key code? What key code?"

"Ivan told us that Moriarty hid the key code in our flat, but before he could say any more he was also shot by one of the others. The key code is a computer code that can be used to get into any system. That's how Moriarty broke into the Tower, the Bank of England, and Pentonville prison all at once. Look at the surveillance from the Tower break in. He used his phone to send the code to the different systems to break in."

"Where is the key code now?"

"I've no idea. I wondered why Moriarty would have hidden it at Baker street. Sherlock thought that it was just one more way to incriminate him." John turned his attention to the third body bag. "So who is this other one?"

Molly unzipped the third bag and John stood frozen to the spot looking pale. "Oh my, God. I've seen this man. He was there at Baker street. The day Sherlock... The day he died Mrs. Hudson had a man in, doing some work. That was him."

"This is Paul Donnelly. He's a hit-man from Glasgow with ties to the Buchanan clan."

"What was a professional hit man doing at Baker street fixing the lighting? This makes no sense. If he was meant to kill Sherlock one of the others would have taken him out of the picture, or he could have followed me when I left..."

John trailed off as different scenarios raced through his mind. "Maybe he was there to find the key code, but if it was something that someone like Donnelly could find then Sherlock would have found it before Moriarty had gotten a block away, so what was he doing there?"

Lestrade was about to ask another question when John's eyes glazed over and he held up a finger. He was working something out and Lestrade knew better than to interrupt his train of thought.

"What if the key code was with Sherlock?"

"I don't follow."

"What if it wasn't something you could pick up, like a zip drive or a piece of paper. Sherlock had a near perfect memory, what if the key code was planted inside his mind by Moriarty himself. If Sherlock realized that he knew it, then _he_ would be what the highest bidder was looking for. Maybe that is why these killers were saving his life, but when ever they spoke to Sherlock one of the others would kill them."

"You mean you think he somehow subconsciously memorized it? How?"

"Seriously, Greg?" John asked, with an incredulous look on his face.

John shook his head clearly confused by these revelations. "This still doesn't fit. Sherlock wanted to use the key code to kill Rich Brook and bring back Moriarty. But if _he_ was the key code and any system could be breached with it, would he...?"

Lestrade felt a little sick. He had once told John that Sherlock Holmes was a great man and if they were very lucky one day he would be a good man. As much as it pained him to say it, he had to point out what seemed a plausible reason for Sherlock's actions.

"Did he kill himself to keep the code from being sold to the highest bidder?"

John looked up at him as he processed that thought. It took him a moment to answer however.

"No. Not Sherlock. No he wouldn't do that. What would be the point? Moriarty is the one who wants to sell the key code. He is the one who planted it whether in the flat or in Sherlock's mind, meaning he knew it as well so he still had it. No, there's something else, something we are missing. Some piece to the puzzle that will make everything fit into place."

Lestrade shook his head. This whole thing was giving him a migraine, but he tended to agree with John. Not having any idea what that missing piece was, he worked on the pieces he _did_ know about and understood.

"Are you sure about this bloke being at Baker street, John?"

John turned his attention back to the corpse.

"Let me see his arms."

Molly lowered the zipper further exposing the upper torso of the bald man revealing his shoulders, chest and arms. He was covered in multiple tattoos and John lifted one of the man's arms by the wrist.

"I'm sure. I remember... these taa..toos..."

John's voice grew distant and he drew out the last word. It looked to Lestrade that he was either remembering something or some new piece to the puzzle had fit into place. The man grew silent and Lestrade could almost see the wheels turning in John's mind. Suddenly he dropped the man's arm as though it had burned him and clarity shown in the doctor's eyes.

"Oh. My. God."

John looked down at the body as if seeing it for the first time.

"John, what? I know that look, you've worked something out haven't you? Come on then let's have it."

John's face paled slightly as shock or was that disbelief spread across his features. "Cold."

Lestrade didn't follow. "Excuse me?"

"He's cold! Oh my, God! That son of a ... He was cold."

John wasn't making any sense, but he was clearly on to something. When Sherlock got like this, Lestrade would start talking to try a draw out what was running through the man's mind. It couldn't hurt to try the same tactic with John.

"Yeah, well he's dead isn't he?"

As if that statement verified something for him, John almost shouted, "Precisely!"

An odd sense of dejavu was creeping around the edges of Lestrade's mind. "You know who you sound like don't you?"

It was as if John didn't even hear him. "But how did he do it? There wasn't time."

Once again Lestrade had no idea what John was on about. All he could do at this point was try to ask the right questions to coax a clear answer from him. "Time? Time for what?"

John began pacing back and forth between the tables with the bodies on them. Molly looked distraught and fascinated at the same time and Lestrade was just flummoxed. Suddenly John stopped and turned toward the others in the room.

"The bicycle. That bloody bicycle! That's it. There would have been enough time to make the switch."

Lestrade turned to Molly feeling like he had been dropped down the rabbit hole. "Do you believe in ghosts? Maybe he's possessed." Molly either didn't hear the quip, or passed it off. She looked frightened of John which didn't make much sense.

Suddenly John stepped closer to the corner looking hard at Molly, and to Lestrade's complete surprise John's next words made the young woman pale visibly. "He couldn't have done it alone. He must have had help."

Molly looked as though she would faint dead away right there. She backed up a bit now looking terrified. This was getting out of control. John was ranting on, making absolutely no sense, and now he was starting to spook Molly. It was time to veer the conversation back to the aspects of this murder investigation that Lestrade could wrap his head around.

He moved deliberately so that he was standing between John and Molly. "We don't think this is the work of one man."

"No it certainly isn't, not even someone as good as...

Oh yes, I see. Time for some attrition is it?"

Lestrade was still lost, even more so given Molly's reaction. "Who are you talking about, John. Who is atoning and for what?"

"Mycroft!" John said, as he started pacing between the bodies again.

Lestrade was having more trouble reining John Watson in that he ever did with Sherlock Holmes if that could be believed. "Can you please stop? John, you are making no sense at all and you're giving me a headache."

John stopped and turned toward Lestrade. "You have no idea! Let's go!" he said, and turned for the door.

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asked, almost dreading the answer considering he still had no idea what John was talking about.

"10 Downing Street and you'd best come along; keep me from killing him myself!"

Lestrade was growing alarmed at this point because John looked like he _really_ was ready to kill someone. "Stop you killing who?"

"Sherlock Holmes!"

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

**The Science of Deduction's 1st Student**

**Chapter Five**

John was quiet on the drive to Downing street, but his eyes held an almost manic intensity that was somewhat intimidating. Lestrade was filled with questions, the biggest one being was Sherlock actually still alive, or had John finally cracked up under the pressure? He was tempted to draw him out, to try and understand what John had figured out, but the ranting in the morgue that made less sense that Sherlock Holmes on his worst day, stayed his tongue. He was hoping that Sherlock's brother Mycroft would be able to shed some light on all of this.

John jumped out of the car almost before Lestrade could bring it to a complete stop, and the detective had to run to keep up with the very determined steps of the doctor. John strode straight into the building as though he belonged there, and walked with fierce determination passed anyone who made a move to stop him. Lestrade had his identification pulled out and held it up for inspection, but was unsure of whether or not it was his identification or John's intimidating face that allowed them to pass through the building unchallenged.

John obviously knew exactly where he was going, heading in a quick determined pace to a door at the end of one of the hallways they had turned down. He didn't knock or even slow down as he reached the door; simply grabbing the knob and waltzing in as though he owned the place.

A neatly dressed dark-haired man stood in front of a highly polished desk as though waiting for John to enter. The large office was large with recessed book shelves, an antique bureau, a large porcelain vase on an ornately scrolled table, and fine adornments from all over the world gracing the walls. In short, it was exceptionally posh. The man himself was meticulously manicured, his suit immaculate and very expensive. Lestrade knew Mycroft Holmes, but he had never been to his office; in fact he had never been to Downing street. To see him here in his 'natural surroundings' showed the man in a new light for Lestrade.

"Hello, John."

"Don't. Don't you dare! You know damn well why I'm here."

Mycroft Holmes stood there in his own office, clearly a very powerful man, and he looked contrite, as if he were a mere boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. John was unmoved.

"So where is he?"

"John..."

Lestrade moved closer to John fearing that he might actually hit the man. The anger rolling off of him was palpable, and just a little frightening, and a hint of that fear showed in Mycroft's eyes.

"Don't. Don't you even try to placate me. You wanted my help, you wanted me to look after Sherlock after you handed him to Moriarty on a silver platter! So instead you helped him pull off this fantasy."

"Fantasy?"

"I know; I think I have always known, somehow. That wasn't him, lying on the ground in front of St. Bart's. That body was cold. It couldn't have been him."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows but refrained from saying anything. He seemed to be waiting for something.

"You want me to spell it out? Fine. Sherlock is not dead. I touched the body lying on the ground in front of St. Bart's. That body had no warmth in it, none! If that had been Sherlock he would still have been warm."

Mycroft sighed and his stiff posture went slightly slack. "Yes. We tried to keep you back far enough so you wouldn't suspect the subterfuge, but you are quite persistent when you need to be. I am very sorry, John. It was necessary. This is what Sherlock wanted, he asked me for my help."

John started toward Mycroft who, to his credit didn't flinch although Lestrade was pretty sure if he were in the man's place he would have, but then John stopped his advance, took a deep breath, and visibly controlled himself.

"Do you know what the last thing I said to him was?" Not waiting for an answer, John continued. "I told him that friends protect people. Friends, Mycroft. I'm really not sure that term can be applied to you, and yet he went to you for help, he even went to Molly for help, instead of me. Why?"

What happened next is something that Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade would remember until his dying day. A door in the rear of the room swung open and Sherlock Holmes stepped through, walking up to John as he spoke.

"You needed to believe me dead for this to work, John. I _am_ sorry."

Lestrade will never forget the array of emotions that flitted across John's face when he clapped eyes on Sherlock Holmes. Shock, relief, and vindication all seemed to want expression simultaneously.

"I'm actually surprised it took you this long to piece it all together."

John moved so quickly that Lestrade didn't think he'd be able to stop him even if he had seen it coming. Sherlock certainly didn't see the punch before a powerful right hook slammed into the side of his jaw. John moved away from the man shaking his hand from the impact. Sherlock's head rocked back with the force of the blow and his lip began to bleed. He pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket and dabbed at the blood, but otherwise took the hit in stride turning to Lestrade.

"Not good?"

"I'd say that was an understatement."

Further comment was cut off when John spun around on Sherlock facing him.

"You selfish bloody bastard! Did you even consider what you have put us through? Mrs. Hudson, me? Do you even care?... Or were you too busy trying to outsmart your little playmate. This is all one big game to you isn't it?

"You had Molly find a corpse that would be the right size, had her use facial putty or something to make him look like you. You fell but were caught with some sort of life net or jumping sheet like the fire brigade uses. That bloke on the bicycle, he was meant to slow me down so you had time to make the switch. That crowd around the body, those were Mycroft's people. Did I miss anything?"

"Very good, John. You got all of that from one touch. You truly are The Science of Deduction's first student, but you didn't address why Claudette Brule screamed when she saw me."

John did not look amused. "You sound like some demented school teacher. You're actually treating this like it was some sort of test. Why did she scream? I haven't a clue, maybe it is just the effect you have on people! You are making me want to scream right now!"

"Perhaps the abductor was made up to look like me. That is my theory."

"So what! It doesn't really mater does it? God damn it, Sherlock, just tell me why? Why did you do this? Why was it necessary to put me and the only other people in this world who care about you through hell?"

The Holmes men exchanged a look. Mycroft is the one who spoke up, however.

"It is time, Sherlock. They need to see the rooftop footage."

Sherlock nodded his head in agreement. "Yes, that would be the best thing at this point."

He turned his attention to John who was looking on very confused. "Please sit down. It is time you know what actually happened during that encounter on the roof at St. Bart's."

John looked confused and Lestrade shared his confusion, asking, "What encounter?"

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, pleased to see you again, I wasn't in fact ignoring you." he said, holding out his hand. "Please do have a seat."

Sherlock looked between both men with an expression on his face like he was about to drop some sort of bombshell. "There was a camera hidden in the chimney vent situated right next to the ledge and recorded everything. I was not on that rooftop alone. Moriarty was there with me."

* * *

John stared at Sherlock as he felt all the warmth evaporate from his body. His best friend had been on the top of that building with a monster. He didn't ask any questions, he simply complied and took a seat. Lestrade followed suit and both men waited. Mycroft turned his laptop around on the desk so that both men sitting in the ornately carved wooden chairs facing the desk could see the screen. Mycroft touched the screen and a video began to play. The first thing they saw was a camera panning from left to right as the Bee Gees song 'Staying Alive' played in the background. It was Moriarty's mobile phone. John remembered how utterly ludicrous it all seemed the first time he heard that ringtone. At the pool where Carl Powers was murdered, John knew that he and Sherlock were about to die, a sacrifice he was willing to make to rid the world of a maniac, when that ridiculous phone went off.

The camera swept right past the ledge where James Moriarty was sitting holding his phone and listening to that stupid song. The camera paid him no mind and continued to pan to the right until it stopped at the stairwell door where Sherlock emerged and then followed Sherlock's progress back to the left as he moved closer to Moriarty.

John and Lestrade watched in rapt fascination as the scene unfolded. He couldn't help but glance at Mycroft when it was revealed that the key code was a fake. The bitter look on his face said it all. Everything that had happened, did so because of Mycroft's fear of something that James Moriarty had made up. Richard Brook the story teller, oh but he did spin a very convincing tale.

John found himself wanting Sherlock to let go of that little bastard when he held him by the lapels over the edge of the roof. Only a moment after having that thought, he felt ice in his gut when Moriarty told Sherlock that if he didn't jump he and Mrs. Hudson and Greg Lestrade would all be killed.

_"Three bullets, three gunmen, three victims. There's no stopping them now, unless my people see you jump._

_Your only three friends in the world will die unless..."_

_"Unless I kill myself; complete your story."_

John didn't even realize that he had begun shaking. Sherlock had been put into an impossible situation. He didn't really hear what Moriarty said next, over the rushing in his ears. He dropped his head into his hands and felt Lestrade's hand on his shoulder, but what brought him away from the brink of passing out was a cool hand laid across the back of his neck.

Mycroft had paused the recording and gotten a glass of water that he handed to Sherlock, who was now squatting in front of John.

"John." the name was spoken softly laced with genuine concern, but John couldn't even acknowledge that yet. Something else had occurred to him.

"Jesus. Oh Jesus." He was breathing fast trying to calm the bile roiling around in his stomach that was threatening to come up. "That hit man from Glasgow. Greg, that tattooed man who was at Baker street; he was going to kill Mrs. Hudson."

"Drink."

It was a command, but delivered in a tone of voice John had never heard Sherlock use. After taking a few sips he nodded that he was fine and waved toward the computer.

"Yes, right, I'm fine now. Let's see the rest of it."

John almost regretted asking to see the rest of the recording. When Sherlock stepped up onto that ledge with Moriarty watching he was actually shaking. It is the most frightened John had ever seen him. Not even after seeing that hound, for that was an irrational fear brought on by poison, this was real fear. Fear that ran down to the very soul.

That was in stark contrast to when Sherlock began to laugh. There it was. That was the man he knew. Sherlock had somehow out-witted Moriarty. It really was like watching some bizarre chess match. Mycroft had tried to intimidate this animal into giving up the key code to no effect, but Moriarty actually feared Sherlock. Something Sherlock said would stay with John to the day he left this world behind.

_"I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."_

It looked as though Sherlock had won. Moriarty admitted defeat, admitted that Sherlock had a way out. As long as he was alive, Sherlock could save his friends. John actually shouted, "No!" when Moriarty pulled out a gun and shot himself in the head. John watched as his friend reeled with what had just happened. It didn't take Sherlock long to realize that what he had so desperately tried to avoid was now his only option left.

John looked on, shaking his head as Sherlock stepped back up onto the ledge. The camera was close enough that he could see his friend's face. He had heard the sorrow in Sherlock's voice when he lived through that phone call the first time, and now he could see it on the man's face. He saw the tears that fell as Sherlock told him that he was a fake, that he had lied to John all along. This was John's nightmare, this phone call, these last few moments of Sherlock's life and now he was actually seeing it from Sherlock's point of view.

_"Good-bye, John"_

John shook his head. "No stop, I don't want to see... Stop the recording."

Tears had formed in his eyes as he watched Sherlock make a false confession in order to keep his friends safe. He looked up at Sherlock alive and standing before him, seeing the swelling lip that was still bleeding, a bruise forming on his face from being punched, and wished he could take it back.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm so sorry; everything I said..."

"John, you were right. _Friends_ protect people. That is what I was doing, that is what I learned from you."

Ever the pragmatist John sat up straight. "So now what? Moriarty's dead, and the world thinks you are."

John had almost forgotten that Greg was there in the room. "So it's you who have been providing all the bodies?" Lestrade said, to Sherlock.

Sherlock stood up to his full hight. "I have killed no one."

The DI turned to Mycroft and raised an eyebrow. "I have fifteen bodies and an open murder inquiry to deal with. Can I trust that I will not be finding any more bodies?"

Mycroft waved his hand in a dismissive gesture that coming from anyone else would have infuriated Lestrade. "The government has spent considerable manpower and resources systematically dismantling the crime network that James Moriarty set up."

Lestrade just shook his head. "Is that what you call it?"

Mycroft, as unflappable as ever, continued on as though Lestrade hadn't said anything. "As for the bodies, one can only hope that you will not _find_ anymore. I naturally wish you good luck in your investigation, but that has no bearing on this. There is always a danger that Moriarty could still come after you so we intend to continue to keep a close eye on all of you."

John frowned. "Hold on, what? Isn't Moriarty dead. I mean we just saw him blow his brains out."

"As you can well imagine we were all rather preoccupied taking care of the situation with Sherlock's untimely demise. By the time we had secret service agents up to the roof, Moriarty was gone."

"Gone? What? How?"

"John, for almost three weeks you have believed that you saw me plummet to my death. You saw it with your own eyes."

"Are you saying that Moriarty faked _his_ own death?"

Lestrade whistled. "You mean that psychopath is still out there?"

Mycroft answered both questions. "It is a very distinct possibility. It would be just the sort of thing he would do, but he also had, or as the case may yet be _has_, a huge network of people at his beck and call. One of them could easily have slipped up to the roof and removed his body."

"But you don't think so, do you? You think he's still out there." John looked directly at Sherlock. He wanted to see in the man's eyes what he really believed.

"I do not believe that he is dead, John."

Mycroft held his hand up to Sherlock indicating that he should stop speaking.

"If he is still alive, James Moriarty thinks he has won, but his network is collapsing. The British government has brought its full and considerable attention and resources to bear in undoing his organization. We have solid intelligence that many of his former associates are backing away and moving on to greener pastures as it were. If he is indeed alive, he will think twice before crossing... me."

The words were delivered with such deathly calm and a cool smile, that John now understood why Sherlock once described Mycroft as the most dangerous man he had ever met. Mycroft Holmes wielded incredible power within the government and Moriarty had tried, and nearly succeeded in, murdering his little brother.

John wasn't going to be deterred. "That recording, it's evidence that can clear Sherlock's name. That recording is proof enough that Moriarty set all of this up. Now you can be cleared of the kidnapping charge, and everything else."

Sherlock stepped over and closed the laptop. "It can not be divulged. If my name is cleared and the world knows that I am still alive then you, and Mrs. Hudson, and Inspector Lestrade are all put in danger. The man who was set to kill Mrs. Hudson may be dead, but we don't know about your assassin John, nor who in Scotland Yard is or was working for Moriarty."

"Now hold on just a moment. Are you saying I have a dirty cop?" Lestrade was upset now, and it showed clearly in his voice.

"Yes of course, don't be an idiot. How else do you think Moriarty was able to pull so many strings? How did he know exactly where I was when I was there? How did he know exactly when to send those messages on the pink phone? Your assassin, Detective Inspector Lestrade, was and still is within your own department."

"I want to know who it is, Sherlock. I want you to find out."

Sherlock sighed. "What do you think I've been doing for the past fortnight, having tea parties with Mycroft? I have no idea who John's assassin is either."

"I don't care!" John shouted. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. This recording, this evidence needs to be put out there, in the newspapers. Kitty Riley needs to be exposed for the trash she wrote about you!"

"John..."

"No, No. Sherlock you cannot spend the rest of your life in hiding. We'll find this..." John stopped, struggling to find words to describe what he was feeling, but the venomous hate he held toward Moriarty couldn't be adequately expressed. "We will find him, Sherlock. We will find him and _I_ will end him."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Yes, well whether or not Jim Moriarty is alive, his criminal network has been seriously compromised. When a dangerous animal is threatened he become more dangerous."

"Good, let him come. I'll take the son-of-a-bitch on myself."

John was not going to let this game continue. "Sherlock, either you tell the press the truth or I will. Kitty Riley is not the only reporter. It is time to end this nightmare."

"You want me to just walk back into the flat at Baker street as if nothing had happened?" Sherlock asked, clearly hoping to put this idea out of John's head.

John thought about that for a moment. "Mrs. Hudson would either faint or keel over with a heart attack. You'd better let me talk to her first."

Mycroft was not on-board with this plan at all. "This idea; it isn't safe. This is not a wise choice. We still need to find out if Moriarty is alive, we need to be sure that he doesn't still have standing orders to kill the people you care about. We can't do anything rash until we find him, Sherlock."

Lestrade spoke up now. "Look, if Moriarty is still alive, then you've given him a bloody nose. You have destabilized his organization and he is going to be feeling pretty off set. Now if Sherlock suddenly raises from the dead and Jim Moriarty is made public enemy number one because of that recording it will have an effect. On it he admits to being insane for God's sake. How many self respecting criminals will want to be associated with someone who thinks of them as ordinary, and who thinks of himself as insane? This could work to our advantage. It could draw him out. Set him off enough that he makes a mistake."

"Excellent point, Lestrade." Sherlock said, before turning to Mycroft. John had seen this look of stubborn determination in his face before. Still staring Mycroft down, Sherlock addressed John.

"John, go have a talk with Mrs. Hudson, I'll follow in a while. It will be good to be back home. I'm sorry Mycroft, I must agree with John and Lestrade. It is time to end this charade. I'm board with being dead."

With that Sherlock swept from the room through the same door he had entered leaving John, Lestrade and Mycroft alone.

"It is going to be much more difficult to keep an eye on him and all of you now."

"It'll be worth it if I can get him to tell me who the dirty cop in my department is. I imagine all he has to do is show up and watch the faces of those around. I hope it is that easy, but nothing with Sherlock ever is."

"Amen to that." John said, as he and Greg left Mycroft's office.

Stepping out into the bright mid morning sun, John looked up to the sky and thought that it was the most perfect day he had ever seen.

**The End**

**A/N:** So what did you think of my solution to the puzzle of how Sherlock survived? Naturally I added in a whole bunch of angst, because that's what I do, and to a certain degree that is what most readers of fan fiction want.  
I will be very interested to see how close I came to the major points when series three eventually makes it out of production.

Thanks for reading  
Alice I


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